


leave a message

by novoaa1



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020), DCU
Genre: F/F, Harleen Quinzel Needs a Hug, POV Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley Loves Harleen Quinzel, Past Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Texting, Voicemail, cassandra cain being mouthy as hell, teenagers these days, the joker's mentioned a fair bit but doesnt actually appear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25295449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: “Okay,” she calls out (assuming the person is still there), “I’m gonna open the door now, and I’d appreciate it a ton if ya didn’t try and kill me. Sound fair?”She hears a heavy sigh, followed by a familiar deadpan voice replying, “Harley, open the damn d—"“EEEEEEEEEK!” Harley scrambles to undo the deadbolt, flinging open the door with a squeal to reveal— “PAMMY!”“Pipe thefuckdown!” comes a muffled but quite clearly disgruntled voice from down the hall—Cass, predictably. (Christ, but themouthon that kid… )“Eat a dick!” Harley screeches back.Or: As it turns out, this whole 'emancipation' thing might just be a little more complicated than Harley originally thought...
Relationships: Cassandra Cain & Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 13
Kudos: 363





	leave a message

**Author's Note:**

> hmmmmm idk i just like the idea of ivy comign back after birds of prey and meeting cass 
> 
> and yes i realize it's a shitty title okay we're doin our best out here

Sionis explodes into chunks just off Founders Pier, Cass throws her short arms around Harley in a bone-crushing hug (not that Harley minds in the slightest), and plans are made for tacos and margaritas over at Harley’s favorite fast-food Mexican joint. 

Four minutes later finds Harley limping over to the nearest payphone and making a call.

She leans herself heavily up against the grimy glass, head pounding as she punches in a number (the _only_ number) she knows by heart. Her hands tremble, and her vision is more than a little unreliable (at one point she’s sure she’s seein’ double), but she makes it work.

She settles the all-black plastic phone between her shoulder and right ear, listens to the generic dial tone trilling over the line—once, twice, three times. She tries not to hold her breath. It trills some more. 

Eventually, the dial tone ends and a cool, automated female voice comes over the line: telling her she’s reached the mailbox of so-and-so, then going on the inform her that if she’d like to leave a message, she should do so after the beep.

_Beeeeeep_.

“Hiya, Red. It’s me,” she chirps out as animatedly as she can manage, though it does fuck all to hide the raspy and quite evidently _exhausted_ quality to her lackluster tone—oh, well. “Mistah J and I broke up. For good, this time.” She heaves a quiet sigh as she envisions Ivy’s reaction to that particular bit of news (which will be just like everyone else’s, except about a thousand times worse). 

“I’ll admit I’m not quite sure why I’m tellin’ ya this, ‘cause I know ya won’t believe me but… whatever.” 

She swallows thickly—doesn’t wince at the coppery taste of her own blood on her tongue. 

“Someone made my apartment go boom, but I blew Ace Chemicals sky-high and sorta exploded Romy, so I figure that that makes everything even now. And, um… now we’re gonna get some tacos and have the kid poop out the stupid Bertinelli diamond and bond over, like… girl power, or somethin’.” She scoffs at herself, lips spreading into a tired grin upon her battered features at her own expense. 

"I don’t know. They’re pretty awesome and they’re nice to me even when I fuck everything up like I tend to do,” she feels herself flush slightly at that, warm blood trickling along the edge of her brow from a scrape just beneath her hairline, "and I guess… I don’t know, Red. I miss ya, and I hope you’re doin’ alright. I hope… I hope you’re happy now, wherever ya are.” She sighs, biting her lip. “And I guess that’s all. I, uh… I love ya, Ives. Plant somethin' pretty for me, okay?”

The effort it takes to tear the grimy plastic phone from her ear is something ridiculous, and she finds herself slamming the device back into its cradle with ~~a little~~ more force than is strictly necessary, because she doesn’t trust herself to hang up otherwise. 

No, if she had her way, she’d stay in that cramped rank-smelling phone booth all night just talkin’, leaving messages Pammy'll probably never listen to until that automated lady comes over the line, tellin’ Harley the voicemail box is full and she ain’t allowed to record any more. 

Harley can’t be that kinda gal any longer—she _refuses_ to, because the story of her and Red (if they get one at all) has to be different than she and Mistah J’s. It can’t be built on mania and obsession and a potent breed of shared insanity all their own (as morbidly tempting as that sounds, even now). 

It’s gotta be different than that; it’s gotta be _better_.

And maybe it’s all moot anyhow since Pammy’s gone and Harley doesn’t know when (if ever) she’s comin’ back… but they say you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take, and maybe it’s cheesy, but it’s true, ‘cause failure is only a guarantee when ya don’t even bother trying. Harley knows that as well as anyone. 

So, she’s gonna do all she can on her end—healing from Mistah J one day at a time, finding herself with the girls over tacos and margaritas, leaving Pammy voice messages about her day from dingy phone booths on the streets of Gotham. 

Maybe Red will come back for her one day, but then again maybe she never will. 

Either way, Harley’s never been one for regrets—for lettin’ key moments pass her by knowing damn well she’ll be looking back on it in a couple years’ time and kicking herself for not doing somethin' about it. 

She doesn’t intend to start now. 

— — 

**[1 WEEK LATER]**

“Hiya, Red! Me and Cass just got a lease on this new loft downtown—it’s a bit of a fixer-upper, but I figure it’s kinda fitting ‘cause I am too, ya know? And—Oh! And I was gonna try teachin’ the kid how to drive, but Dinah won’t let us borrow the car ‘cause I think she’s still a little sour about that time I sorta stole it after tacos and margaritas. Plus, Renee said it was illegal for a 12-year-old kid to be drivin’ in the first place, but she quit bein’ a detective days ago, so it ain’t like she can arrest me for it.”

“Also, I found Brucey! He was lurkin’ around Chinatown and had Gotham City Animal Control all down his throat for bitin’ a couple people, but I know Brucey and I know he wouldn’ta bit _anyone_ if he didn’t have a damn good reason, ya know? Anyways, I got some fancy-person soil and one of those super expensive pots you like and started growin' an ivy plant in the loft ‘cause it reminded me of you… it ain’t much, but she’s lookin’ nice and green so far and she hasn’t died yet, so I figure that’s as good a sign as any, right?”

“I hope you’re doin’ okay, Ives. I think I’m gonna try leavin’ a message every week or so, if that’s okay. I don’t know if you're listenin’ to ‘em in the first place, but I think it’s good for me… cathartic, and all that. Plus, it keeps me from talkin’ Cass’s ear off about ya, which the thieving squirt tells me is for the best… that cheeky little runt… 'Kay, that’s all, I think. Until next week—love ya, Red.”

— — 

**[2 WEEKS LATER]**

“Sooo, turns out this whole ‘emancipation’ thing is a lot more complicated than I thought. I mean, maybe I shoulda seen it comin’, but you’d think that killin’ Romy would at least take the heat off of me for a little while, ya know? A month or two, maybe?”

“But that was probably just me bein’ stupid as usual and never thinkin’ things through like you're always tellin’ me I should… ‘Cause looking back on it, I wouldn’ta needed a crystal ball or anythin’ to tell me as soon as word got around that I had the nerve to blow the second baddest Gotham-City crime lord into chunks off Founders Pier, Mistah J wouldn’t be too happy about it. Especially not if it was _me_ who did it.” 

"Whatever. I guess it doesn’t really matter now. I just… I’m worried, Red. About Cass, and Dinah, and all the rest of ‘em. Mistah J doesn’t play fair—if he wants to kill me, he’s gonna go after _them_ , too. I’m almost glad ya skipped town, honestly. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I still miss ya like crazy, and Cass complains all the time that I talk about ya too much, but the last thing I want is you gettin’ hurt in another one of my fuckin' messes.”

“I’m scared, ya know? I’m scared, and I don’t know who I’m gonna lose. I just know that I _am_ gonna lose something, and that it’s gonna hurt, ‘cause Mistah J isn’t someone you fuck with, and I really _really_ fucked with him… _big_ this time.”

"But I… I’m glad I know I ain’t gonna lose you. I’m glad I don’t even know where ya are, ‘cause that means that Mistah J doesn’t know where ya are either, and that means he can’t get you. Yeah. That’s good. I like hearin’ myself say it: He can’t get you. I ain’t gonna lose you. You’re _safe_.”

“… I love ya, Red. I hope you’re doin’ okay.”

— — 

**[2 WEEKS AND 1 DAY LATER]**

A knock on the door interrupts Harley’s rather involved talk-therapy session with Leafy (the ivy plant she started growing a couple weeks back), and she immediately freezes where she sits: cross-legged atop the kitchen counter, potted plant in one hand and half an untoasted strawberry-flavored Pop-Tart in the other. 

In a flash, she’s setting Leafy aside and shoving the rest of the Pop-Tart in her mouth, then promptly hopping on her phone to shoot Cass a text. 

**3:04pm**  
to: slippery fingers  
 _did u order something_

Another knock. 

_Fuck_. 

Her phone chimes (fuckin’ _loudly_ , mind you) in her hand, and she has to resist the urge to groan. 

**3:05pm**  
from: slippery fingers  
 _Why would I order somethinj_

Harley gulps down the rest of the Pop-Tart. Mind made up, she calls out, “Just a sec!” then starts typing out one last text.

**3:05pm**  
to: slippery fingers  
 _plz be super quiet and if u don't hear from me in the next 30min, use the fire escape out back and tell helena to avenge my death. also take bruce with u_

Satisfied, she hops down from the counter without a sound, plucks her revolver off the arm of the nearest sofa, and trudges over to the door with a queasy expression. 

“Okay,” she calls out (assuming the person is still there), “I’m gonna open the door now, and I’d appreciate it a ton if ya didn’t try and kill me. Sound fair?”

She hears a heavy sigh, followed by a familiar deadpan voice replying, “Harley, open the damn d—"

“EEEEEEEEEK!” Harley scrambles to undo the deadbolt, flinging open the door with a squeal to reveal— “PAMMY!”

“Pipe the _fuck_ down!” comes a muffled but quite clearly disgruntled voice from down the hall—Cass, predictably. (Christ, but the _mouth_ on that kid… )

“Eat a dick!” Harley screeches back without a moment’s hesitation. “Also, didn’t I just text ya to be _super quiet_ in case someone was here to kill me and ya needed to go get back up?!”

“You sound pretty alive to me!”

“Yeah, no thanks to _you!_ " Harley yells before turning back around to face a smirking Ivy (who looks _awesome_ , in case anyone was wondering, in a leafy green body-suit covering her curvaceous figure and absolutely nothing else).

“Let me guess,” Ivy says, bright green eyes glinting with telltale amusement. “That’s the ‘cheeky little runt’ you’ve been mentioning as of late?”

Harley’s jaw drops. “Ya _have_ been listenin’ to my messages!”

“Of course, darling,” Ivy remarks, waving a single green-tinged hand dismissively through the air like it’s nothing. “I wouldn’t miss them for the world.”

( _Huh. Maybe they’ll get that story after all_.)

— — 

**[2 WEEKS, 1 DAY AND 5 MINUTES LATER]**

“Hold on—if you’ve been listenin’ to my messages like ya say, then how come you’re _here_ ?”

Ivy shrugs, pulling out a chair from the four-person dining table and settling into it with practiced ease—one shapely green thigh crossed over the other, mouth-watering breasts jiggling with every slight movement, a deadly juniper-green smirk upon her fuckin’ _perfect_ face. “You said you were in trouble, Harls.”

“Exactly!” Harley exclaims, a heated flush rising to her cheeks, hands gesticulating wildly about trying to further emphasize her point. “Which is why I literally _said_ I was _happy_ ya weren’t here—"

“Ouch.”

“—‘cause that meant you were _safe_ —"

“Your trouble is my trouble, daffodil.”

“Don’t do that,” Harley says (though it’s more of a plea than anything else). 

“Do what?”

“Don’t… _call_ me that, Red, I—I’m tryin’ to be _mad_ at ya, for Christ’s sake—"

“You never were very good at that, peanut,” Ivy chuckles, low and rich and _genuine_ like it’s funny (which it ain’t), and Harley quite suddenly finds herself caught between wanting to strangle her and kiss her senseless. 

“You’re doin' it again!” she protests crossly, folding her arms beneath her chest and fighting the urge to stomp her feet like a petulant child. “With your,” Harley pauses herself to gesture vaguely at her _perfect_ drool-worthy figure even as Ivy’s brows creep steadily towards her blood-red hairline, “nice legs and poofy hair and always smellin’ like _flowers_ —"

“I don’t quite see how any of these are _insults_ , Harley dear—"

“—and ya know what? Sure, maybe I was a little sad that you were gone—“

“You cried for three days straight,” Cass offers up oh-so-helpfully from the couch, not even bothering to look up from her phone. “It was obnoxious.”

“ _You’re_ obnoxious,” Harley turns in her seat to hiss back, flashing the kid a death glare that she knows damn well will ultimately do absolutely nothing to deter her from being a perpetual pain in the ass. 

“Ooh,” the 11-year-old mocks, still not glancing up from her phone. “Good one.”

Harley rolls her eyes. 

“I like her,” Ivy remarks with a smirk.

Harley scowls. 

_Dumbass fuckin’ kids_.

— —

**Author's Note:**

> i tried to add more to this but idk i dont think the writing gods were feeling it
> 
> and thats just showbiz, kids
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/))


End file.
